Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Month: October 2017

I’m not complaining, really I’m not. Well, maybe just a little. And, I certainly don’t think it’s my fault. But then, if I stop to think a moment, it could be.

A quick search of Google shows that I need to have soft hands for them to be considered beautiful. Or, is that just women? I really can’t tell, but I’m pretty sure gnarled and scarred hands aren’t all that attractive, regardless of which gender they belong to.

I’ve never worried much about the appearance of my hands, but recently I’m a little more aware of it. Having worked with my hands all my life (and talked with them, too), the osteoarthritis now settling in my joints is beginning to mar the symmetry of my once-straight fingers.

Other things are conspiring to make them less physically attractive, as well.

In just the last week, I’ve pinched them with pliers (twice), cut them with a saw blade, with the sharp edge of an air conditioner duct, and the corner of a file. While I was at it, I smashed a knuckle using a power sander, and sliced the tip of my thumb with a utility knife (just tonight). I even have a jammed thumb on one hand, although I have no recollection of how that one happened.

The mind wanders—as it does—and I recall my last day of working for an electrician in another life, decades ago. I was leaving that job to return to the music business full-time, and the electrician I worked with mentioned he’d be calling Johnson & Johnson to warn them they might need to make some adjustments to their business plan. The puzzled look on my face led to his tongue-in-cheek explanation.

Since you won’t be working for us anymore, we won’t be purchasing all those bandages. They’re likely to face bankruptcy soon, I’d think.

When I work with my hands, I bleed. It’s a given. And yet, I keep working with my hands. Blood washes off. Cuts and scrapes heal.

Even now, as I sit and write, my hands hurt again. I rub them gently, feeling a few new callouses ,and again my mind wanders—further back, this time.

I was in my twenties. With young children, money was scarce, but we took the trip to South Texas anyway. Babies need to see their grandparents, and vice versa.

The car didn’t make it all the way to my childhood home in the Rio Grande Valley. Well, it did, but we could only drive 30 miles per hour the last sixty miles of the trip.

I spent my vacation under the hood of that old car. By the time it was running right again, my callouses had callouses, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have described it.

One afternoon after the problem was sorted out, my dad introduced me to a friend of his. As I shook his hand, he looked down at mine, then back up at me and smiled.

It’s nice to meet a young man these days who knows how to work with his hands.

Callouses. On callouses. I was embarrassed. And proud—if you understand how that could be true as well.

Lend me a hand.Get your grubby hands off!I’ve got to hand it to you.He knows this town like the back of his hand.We’re just living hand to mouth these days.Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
Give your hand in marriage.My right-hand man.

These are only a small sampling of the phrases in our language in which the word hand plays a major part. Hands are important to us.

They are important to our God, as well.

His Word is full of hands.

Hands that took the fruit and put it to the mouth—original sin. (Genesis 3:6)

Hands that blessed a young man who was wearing animal skin on his own hands, to deceive—the father of the Children of Israel. (Genesis 27)

Hands that stretched over the sea, parting the waters—a journey begun to freedom. (Exodus 14:21,22)

Hands that built a tabernacle—a place for God to dwell among men. (Exodus 25:8)

Hands that played a harp to calm the soul—and later, to compose psalms of worship which endure until this day—a sacrifice of praise. (1 Samuel 16:23)

The hands—cracked, calloused, gnarled, and stiff—are beautiful simply because they serve. Wiping away a child’s tears, touching the cheek of a newborn baby or a nervous bride, stroking the hair of a frightened mate, reaching out in love to serve.

And sometimes, they hurt. His did, too.

His did, too.

Oh, be careful little hands what you do,For the Father up above is looking down in love.Oh, be careful little hands what you do. (from Oh Be Careful ~ American children’s song ~ Anonymous)

We’ve been remodeling the old house for months now. Soon, we’ll be living in the Lovely Lady’s childhood home. Our hard work is beginning to pay off and I think the place is looking pretty nice.

A few folks in the neighborhood have stopped by to see how the work is progressing. Everyone likes the bathroom.

Strange, isn’t it? They also like the other rooms we’ve worked on, but the bathroom is the one they exclaim about.

I like the bathroom, too. It’s turned out very nicely. All in all, a comfortable space.

I stood in the middle of that room earlier tonight as a neighbor expressed her surprise at how beautiful it is now and I had a moment. You know. One of those moments.

The kind of moment when you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. The realization hit me that we had actually finished it. There was elation in that moment.

Done! It’s done.

There was another emotion in play, as well. I am reluctant to speak of it.

Really, I am reluctant. I have sat, staring at the monitor for a long time, not sure I can write the words. But, I think it’s important, so I’ll give it a shot.

Do you know how it feels to stand, faced with a job you know—absolutely know—you are not up to, and yet recognize that you have no choice but to try?

Have you ever simply stood and looked at a task, thinking I can’t do this, for hours? Seriously. Hours.

I lay under that house one day, pipe wrench in hand, having once again failed in my task, screaming—Really. Screaming!—at the pipes above, and then at myself, and yes—at God for putting me in that situation.

Again and again, in the course of the work, I was paralyzed by failure and fear—certain I was at the end of my resources.

I was sure I could only fail. Absolutely and finally.

Two points, I want to make here. More will come to mind, but I’ll stop at two:

1) When we look only at the problem and refuse to look past it to the solution, we ensure failure. At least until we can change our focal point. There is always a solution. Always.

2) You’re never on your own in solving the problem. Whether it was guys who wanted to offer advice—marginally better, to my mind, than sitting and staring at the offensive piece while imagining complete and utter failure—or whether it was friends and family who actually could help with the physical work, there was always someone to help bear the burden.

I suppose the reader will understand if I make it clear I am not simply talking about a remodel on a house here. Sure, that has been my mountain to climb for the last few months, but it’s certainly not the only mountain there is.

Unclimbable, some of those mountains. A person might be tempted to sit and wonder how in the world God expects us to get over that gargantuan pile of rock and rubble—perhaps, never even attempting the ascent.

Some have suggested the mountain need not be attempted at all. Well? Didn’t Jesus teach His disciples they could tell the mountain to be moved from one place to another if they had faith the size of a mustard seed? (Matthew 17:20)

Leaving aside the fact I’m not sure I have that huge a faith (have you seen the size of a mustard seed???), I want to assure you we don’t get to remove the mountains God has put in front of us in that manner.

It’s a funny thing, but when God puts mountains in our way, it is to help us grow in faith. James says it’s a joy to have our faith tested, because it develops endurance. (James 1:2-4)

I’m not sure I would call it a joy. These last few months haven’t been a walk in the park.

That said, the mountain cannot—will not—be prayed away. God put it there for a reason. There is only one way to the other side. Over.

Over.

Now, when I look at the result (and, I’m still not only talking about that bathroom), there is joy in knowing what has been accomplished.

I’ll admit it. We had been ignoring the beautiful little girl. In the room full of people, every one of us was looking at the window and offering an opinion about the shades being installed. No one was focused on her in any way.

The sweet little girl sat on the cedar chest and swung her feet—thunk, thunk, thunk—against the sides, waiting for at least one of us to tear our eyes away from the window and speak to her.

It must have been a sore trial for the little tyke. When one is used to being the center of attention, to be among a crowd of folks and not even be a part of the conversation would be most difficult. Especially if you’re an almost four-year-old kid.

Then again, I don’t know.

This sixty-year-old man understands how she feels. Anyone who’s spent time waiting while life goes on apace for others all around knows how the little girl feels.

We don’t need to jump up and down, waving to make sure He is aware of our presence. We have His undivided attention.

But, perhaps it’s time I—we— who have been shown such love and lavish attention should begin to show love and lavish attention to those around us.

Many are lonely in the crowd. Many sit, kicking their feet, waiting for someone—anyone—to notice them sitting there.

I’ve been in that crowd. Alone. Lost. I will attest to the loneliness and pain. But, I also remember the approach of a member of the crowd who says, You must be Paul, and then that feeling of relief and belonging spreading to every part of my being.

The words are stubborn tonight—uncooperative. Somehow, I think it may be my own fault.

They—the all-knowing experts who are certain about such things—tell me I must write a first—rough—draft quickly, not stopping to correct misspellings and syntax errors. They don’t know me very well.

My drafts are never rough for long. I cannot abide uncorrected errors. I am barely into my third paragraph and already I have re-read the first two more than once.

As the red-headed lady who raised me would have said, this is like pulling teeth for me. No, not the painful part of having teeth removed from my mouth.

Writing a first draft is like the physical ordeal of pulling, of struggling, of wrestling a tooth out of the socket from which it never wanted to be unseated in the first place.

I look again over what I have written and a light bulb snaps on somewhere. That’s it! They call it a draft because it’s drawn from the paper (or is it drawn from my mind and heart?), stubborn words and reticent paragraphs, one after the other.

Draft. The word applies to many things and activities, but all go back to one thought. A draft is an article drawn out from something else.

A first draft is words on paper drawn from the mind of the author. A bank draft is something authorizing funds to be drawn from a bank account. Draft beer is beer drawn from a tap. The military draft is the act of filling out the ranks by drawing from a pool of civilians. A cold draft that makes us uncomfortable is frigid air drawn unexpectedly past our location.

The most famous of sales ads played during football games on American television is one for a beer company. I laugh at the pun, intended or not, every time I see it. The huge Clydesdale horses are harnessed to the loaded wagon as it spins down pleasant lanes. They are beautiful beasts, also known as draft horses because they draw a wagon behind them.

Draft horses drawing draft beer. What could be more clever?

So, I draft the words to the page. Many seem to have become conscientious objectors, unwilling to be drawn. The going is slow. Sometimes—many times—the wrong word shows up to report for duty and has to be thrown back—4F.

But tonight, as I sat staring at that word showing on the side of the page of my computer’s editor—Draft—and considered the difficulty of drawing something from one place to another, the light that flickered on earlier blazed into bright midday glare.

I remember words David wrote in a Psalm. Words about a God who drew him from a horrible pit—up out of the miry clay—setting his feet on the rock. (Psalm 40:2)

And again, I can’t help it. The pun, certainly unintended this time, is stuck in my head.

The original Artist, who once drew His greatest masterpiece from the dirt, from the mud, must once more draw us from the mud into which we choose to crawl back.

The first was an act of creation; the second, an act of love and mercy.

If it sounds as if I’m trying to convince myself, perhaps I am. Of all the endeavors I have undertaken in my life, playing the horn has been the most mercurial.

By that, I mean to say it has been the most enjoyable and the most frustrating. I’ve had astounding successes and disastrous failures. Most days, I love playing with other musicians. Then again on others, I detest the very thought of it.

Mercurial.

Up. Down.

Hot. Cold.

I suppose my attitude toward the activity may be tethered to my commitment to preparation for it. For some odd reason, when I don’t take the horn out of its protective case and play it between rehearsals, the rehearsals themselves are less than satisfactory. Often, much less.

The lady is kind if nothing else. She is. Standing there on her podium, she has no intention of hurting anyone’s feelings. All she’s after is music—correct notes, played at the right time, and at the volume indicated in the dynamic marking.

It’s not much to ask.

Still, it requires more than just attempting it in the instant of need. Sometimes, a lot more.

She was frustrated on the last occasion. The violins may have been a few cents off pitch. The timpani player might have played that roll too loudly. The bass voices could have been dragging the beat a little.

None of those was the cause of her frustration. This time, anyway. No, it was something else.

The horns had blown their entrance.

Three notes. That’s all it was. Three. Play a G in the middle octave, then a jump to the G in the higher octave, then a little slur down to the F#.

Except, it didn’t happen. The first note was nowhere near to a G, nor was the next even close to the octave interval required. Perhaps, we shouldn’t even talk about the F#.

The exasperation was obvious as she motioned with her baton. A big circle in the air. That meant stop. No. It meant stop now!

She needn’t have bothered on my account. I wasn’t playing any more notes after that flub anyway.

She looked back at the horn section, the frown on her lips replaced quickly with a smile. If not one of confidence, it was at least one of hope.

You’re going to get that. I’m sure you will. Next time.

She didn’t insist we play it again in front of all the other musicians. She didn’t berate us for our second-rate performance. She extended mercy.

Mercy and grace.

A second chance.

An interval in which to work on our interval, you might say.

A wise man would spend the time judiciously, these minutes—and hours—and days—in that interval of grace.

I wonder if I fall into that category. I suppose time will tell.

But if you know me, you know I wonder about other things, as well. It’s impossible for me to consider that little ragtag group of musicians we like to call a chamber orchestra and not get a glimpse in my mind of this great, huge symphony in which all of us are participants.

Every single one of us plays a part. The phrase fits the subject perfectly—not by my design—but because it is true that all of us understand we play, at least in some capacity, a part of the music of life.

The Teacher sat down on the mountain one day and began with a list of blessings. It is a famous list. Most who are seeking blessings don’t seem to want to consider it in their search. Matthew 5 has the complete list.

At the top of the list? Those who are broken, helpless, and destitute in spiritual resources. Knowing we bring nothing of our own, we are blessed.

I would be lying if I told you it’s not good to see the hint of dawn on the horizon. But, in the dark I knew He was there.

I basked in His presence in the dark.

The morning will be no different.

You see, God is good.

Always, He is good.

Bask.

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously…(from Anne of Green Gables ~ L.M. Montgomery ~ Canadian author ~ 1874-1942)

Thou art giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blest, Well-spring of the joy of living, ocean depth of happy rest! Thou our Father, Christ our brother, all who live in love are thine; Teach us how to love each other, lift us to the joy divine.(from Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee ~ Henry Van Dyke ~ American author/poet ~ 1852-1933)